Don't go, tell me now
by Gryffindorian2014
Summary: Part 4 of Johnlock/Freebatch. Pining!John. John groaned internally, I want this, Christ, I need this, but I am getting married tomorrow. I am getting married tomorrow. But Sherlock continued to simply look John directly in the eyes.


_And we know_  
 _What happens when_  
 _We get to your house_  
 _Rip my heart right out_  
 _You'll rip my heart right out_

John stumbles through the door, barely holding himself from falling flat on his face. He supports himself clumsily, grappling the wooden bannister and trying to walk up the stairs, his body longing to sink into his armchair by the warm fire (which Mrs. H promised to make up for them), but his legs give away and he sits down with a thump on the carpeted stairs, feeling his head reel with a sudden bout of laughter.

Sherlock follows him shortly, his overcoat swirling around his uncoordinated feet and his scarf hanging loosely, tied to one of his hands. _When did it get there?_ John wonders fleetingly, feeling another bout of giggles overcome him. Sherlock lies down on his side facing the bannisters. John closes his eyes.

"What..." Sherlock starts, his sentence interrupted by a small hiccup. "What is so...?"

"What?" John asks, equally at loss. But Sherlock doesn't seem adequately bothered by his own line of inquiry and John lets it go.

"I have an international reputation..." Sherlock is slurring when he speaks again, John briefly opens his eyes, then closes them again and settles his head into a more comfortable position. Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John, "Do you have an international reputation?"

"No, I don't have an international reputation," John replies with his eyes still closed.

"No," Sherlock pauses for a moment and turns to lie on his back, twisting his head to face John, "And I can't even remember what for..."

John settles his head back down on the stair again and grunts quietly. "'s...Crime...something or other..." Sherlock trails off.

The door to 221A opens and Mrs. Hudson comes out with a bag of rubbish. She stops in surprise at the sight of them.

"Ooh! What are you doing back? I thought you were going to be out late."

"Ah, Hudders. What time is it?" Sherlock asks, unable to move at all but a slight incline of his head from his position.

Mrs. Hudson looks at her watch, "You've only been out two hours."

The boys sit up together, trying to stand but are tightly wedged. By the time Mrs. Hudson is out and back in her flat, Sherlock tries to stand again and falls off the step, his bottom thumping down onto the next step. He gives up trying and wounds his scarf back around his neck before settling back on the stairs beside John.

John didn't know how long they lay there like that, side by side, breathing together; all of his awareness seemed to be concentrated in the feeling of his side pressed against Sherlock's. He could feel the scratchy wool of his flat mate's coat, slightly damp from the light drizzle outside. John grazed the back of his fingers on the material and felt his chest constrict painfully. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but he couldn't stop his anxious train of thoughts hurtling down into the bottomless zone of no return...his heart beat like the alarm bells of the Tower and he turned—

Sherlock was looking at him with intense curiosity and he felt strangely exposed.

Something came over him and John sat up, supporting himself on his elbow. He brought his hand out of his jacket and, suddenly unsure of where to put it, slid it back into his pocket.

All the while Sherlock watched him like closely, his brows furrowing with what John often fancied were little gears whirring right underneath. Sherlock shifted and they were so close that they were breathing in the same sharp smell of alcohol that pervaded their collective breathing.

In what felt like hours to John, he spoke.

"John," he said and it was the most tender sound John could remember.

John groaned internally, _I want this, Christ, I need this, but I am getting married tomorrow. I am getting married tomorrow._ But Sherlock continued to simply look John directly in the eyes.

"So you did intend to intoxicate me as well," he said after a pause, breaking his gaze away as his eyes flittered over 221A's closed door. John felt his heart beat faster as he grasped for words, desperately trying not to sound... _urgent,_ or give himself away in any way, but for all he knew, _he knew._

"It was an _experiment_ ," he said instead, imitating Sherlock as best as he could.

Sherlock's full lips split into a broad grin and John felt his heart break a little more, his eyes transfixed by them.

"Indeed" he simply said, turning his face away from John.

John had no illusions about what this looked like if Mrs. Hudson decided to step out of her flat.

"Its 444.73 millimetres, in case you were wondering."

"You could have just given me the standard pint, you know?"

"Perhaps, but then I wouldn't have had the satisfaction of watching you work out the amount."

"You really are an incredibly exasperating man, Sherlock Holmes, and I-" John stopped short, clearing his throat, alarmed by his sudden clarity of understanding. _I'm getting married tomorrow, For Christ's sake._

"I know," Sherlock said at length, his eyebrows furrowed in scrutiny, eyes now fixed unwaveringly on the ceiling.


End file.
